


edges that scratch

by goddesspharo



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 12:22:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4746335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goddesspharo/pseuds/goddesspharo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Illya has been trained not to have a heart to break."</p><p>
  <i>Illya's body is sizzling like a live wire and he wants nothing more than to electrocute her.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	edges that scratch

"You have anger issues."

It is the type of obvious statement that would normally cause Illya's anger issues to flare, but Gaby says it with such a cavalier disregard for the destruction surrounding them that she might as well be commenting on the fact that he is very tall. Illya waits for a lecture that never comes as the points of her ridiculously high heels crunch through glass and fine china while she makes her way towards the hired gun. Gaby almost looks bored as she lights her cigarette with practiced nonchalance. She steps over the burly Turkish man clutching his shattered hand in pain to pluck the cassette containing leaked British secrets from his jacket pocket.

"You will never get away with—"

Gaby rolls her eyes and gives a swift kick to his crotch before he can finish the threat.

"Who is quick to anger now?" Illya asks with a proud smirk. 

He doesn't expect the hard shove to his bruised shoulder so Illya's balance is off enough that he drops into the armchair behind him. Gaby leans forward and pinches on the bridge of his nose to make sure it's not broken.

"This is unnecessary," he grumbles, trying to swat her hand away but she fixes him with a look that stops Illya in his tracks.

After Gaby is satisfied that he's not going to start gushing blood once they rejoin the party downstairs, she loosens his tie and undoes the top button of his shirt. If there's a smart remark at the tip of his tongue, Illya loses it the moment Gaby runs her fingers against his scalp to liberate any errant shards of glass, her soft hands quickly crossing over into the realm of pain when she grabs a fistful of his hair and tugs down to force him to look up at her face. He has to remind himself not to tilt his head into her touch when she places a tender hand on his cheek and leans in ever so slowly until it feels like Illya has forgotten the simple mechanics of breathing. His head is foggy in a way that he doesn't quite mind while his fingers itch to feel her hips, her spine, the heat between her legs. Illya's hands remain frozen on his own knees as her lips brush the corner of his mouth, so light that he would have missed it if his eyes weren't open. Gaby pulls back and smears the red mark left behind with the pad of her thumb before straightening her back with a nod.

"In case anyone wonders where we've been," she answers with a wink.

If he were Solo, he would've raised his eyebrows and told her that they could be missed for another ten minutes if Gaby really wanted to sell the story, his cadence so smooth that she would've had her legs wrapped around his waist before his pants were even off. The image presents itself unbidden in his mind of Gaby's head thrown back to reveal the very tan expanse of neck waiting to be kissed as his name tumbles from her lips while he presses his body against hers. 

But Illya isn't Solo and all of his foolish decisions involve his fists so Illya slowly lets out the breath that he wasn't supposed to be holding and stands up quickly before offering Gaby the crook of his arm like the good boy toy he is supposed to be playing on this mission.

"Waverly is going to kill us when he gets the hotel charges for incidentals," Gaby sighs as they leave the room. " _Again_."

"There is an American saying about eggs and omelets," Illya suggests now that his lungs have started to fill back up with air.

"I suppose we can always tell him this was Napoleon's room."

  


  


-

  


  


The problem with Waverly giving them the evening off for a job well done is that he announces it so late that there is nothing left to do with the free time once they know about it. It's carefully orchestrated, much like everything Waverly does, to keep them from getting into any trouble that would reflect poorly on his pet project. 

Illya is perfectly content to play a game of chess but Solo and Gaby decide that the only hope of salvaging the night is to bring the party to their safe house by consuming copious amounts of alcohol while Gaby fiddles with the radio that Illya really should have smashed in Rome.

"What kind of Russian doesn't enjoy the drink?" Solo asks not for the first time since they've known each other. 

"The sober kind," Illya replies dryly as he captures a rook with his bishop.

"Silly Solo," Gaby laughs, "super spies don't drown their sorrows!"

She is already a little drunk when she starts to twirl round and round to a Nina Simone song, Illya watching as she spins faster and faster until the vertical line of her movement falters and she collapses onto the sofa next to him. She rests her head on his shoulder while she catches her breath and no doubt waits for the room to stop dancing with her.

"I don't know, Gaby," Solo continues. "Peril was pretty upset when he thought you had betrayed us."

Illya's jaw twitches and he stretches his hand before it can reflexively fashion itself into a fist aimed to connect with the stupid American's big mouth.

"Did you hit something very hard?" she asks Illya, reaching for her tumbler of vodka. 

"He was heartbroken," Solo continues matter-of-factly because apparently drinking turns him into someone who no longer knows when to stop speaking. Illya's cheeks flush. If he believed in telepathic connections, he would be sending one to Solo right now that told him to throw himself into the Black Sea.

"You are drunk, Cowboy," Illya says with a scoff, a little too late for his indignation to feel genuine. 

Gaby tilts her head to get a better look at him, the scrutiny of her curiously sober gaze almost enough to make Illya excuse himself from the room. If he were a weaker man, he would confess that it killed him a little, but since he is a Russian he does nothing more than avoid her eyes.

"Illya has been trained not to have a heart to break," Gaby finally proclaims with a laugh. Illya isn't sure if she says it more for her benefit or for his, but it's a moot point because Solo has already moved on to lamenting about a painting at the Pera Museum that he definitely would have stolen in his former life. 

  


  


-

  


  


"Can I offer you a word of helpful advice, Peril?"

"No."

They're supposed to be waiting for Gaby's signal for extraction and monitoring for any unexpected complications from the guards but Illya is surprised that Solo has lasted this long in the van without attempting conversation. There are some men who have to fill up any silence with the sound of their voices no matter how unnecessary. 

"You're going about this all wrong," Solo continues. "Women like to be wooed, even strong, independent ones like the lovely Miss Teller."

"Please do not talk to me about women."

"Because this monosyllabic redwood act has worked so well for you in the past?"

"We are partners," Illya quickly says. 

"You have been holding onto that steering wheel so tightly for the past hour that I'm surprised you still have sensation in your hands."

Illya looks down at his white knuckles and quickly loosens his grip before dropping his hands altogether like they're on fire. Solo takes the moment to bring up the fake engagement ring that Gaby still wears around her neck. 

"A gift," Illya offers with a shrug. He is so massive that it simply looks like he's shifting the weight of the world from one shoulder to another. 

"Oh? And where is _my_ gift?"

"I let you live," he answers darkly, already tired of the other man's voice. "Regretting this now."

"Gaby is a very attractive woman. One day soon, someone will give her a real ring and you will be left out in the cold, comrade."

Before Illya can remind Solo that he was forged from the cold, a series of lights flash in the side mirror and they're off. 

  


  


-

  


  


In Paris, the three of them are barely paying attention to the debriefing until Waverly tells them that it's a honeypot mission and Illya is the honey. Solo's head snaps up so quickly that he probably gets whiplash, a mixture of confusion and amusement playing across his eyes as he reminds Waverly that Illya's specialty is more of the vinegar persuasion.

Espionage requires a certain level of flexibility, but if there is one benefit to being part of U.N.C.L.E, it is that they've found their niches and others to fill in the areas of less expertise. No one asks Solo to be the muscle when he can schmooze at a party while Illya strong arms crooks in the background. It has practically become routine and they've all become quite complacent. The first thing Russia taught him was that as soon as something becomes comfortable, it turns into something that can get him killed. This is in part why Illya doesn't protest when Waverly tells them that the French dignitary's wife has a penchant for heavily accented blondes. 

" _Da_ ," he says. "I will require a new tuxedo."

"You will require a new personality," Solo mumbles under his breath before flashing his megawatt smile at Illya and assuring him that he will be on comms to talk him through it.

"I have done this before," Illya huffs, a blatant lie. He became the KGB's best agent by breaking bones, not hearts. They left this type of soft-souled work for lesser agents with little else to offer their country. 

" _Successfully_?" Solo challenges now. Just as Illya is about to tell him that they can't all be whores for a living, Gaby clears her throat loudly and orders them both to stop bickering before one of them throws a punch and costs them the mission by ruining Illya's pretty face.

  


  


-

  


  


Illya will never admit this, of course, but he is nervous when he walks into the ballroom by himself. He is no stranger to fancy parties, but it's one thing to be in attendance as an observer and another thing entirely to be the focal point. Waverly forced him to defer to Solo on matters of dress so in addition to feeling uncomfortable amidst the ridiculous opulence of French high society, Illya also feels strange in his own body. The overwhelming urge to pull at his bowtie and heavily starched shirt is almost too much to bear as he makes his way to the bar and orders a scotch and soda.

"No vodka then?" Gaby's voice unexpectedly crackles in his right ear. In addition to the onyx cufflinks currently doubling as tracking devices, Waverly gave him a tiny communications piece courtesy of their friends at the CIA so that Solo could walk him through playing the part of vacuous eye candy. 

"Where is Cowboy?" he asks into his drink, trying to force his voice to remain even.

"Cracking a safe. Consider me Napoleon for the night."

Illya miserably swallows the remainder of his drink in one gulp and motions the waiter over to replace it with vodka. In his ear, he hears Gaby snicker softly. For the first time, he thinks maybe this was a bad idea. Surely, there was another angle they could have explored. It would have been strange enough to have Solo in his brain, but the thought of Gaby issuing orders in his ear while he seduces another woman is at once utterly petrifying and profoundly alluring. Illya's heart is thudding so loudly in his chest that he's afraid Gaby won't be able to hear anything over the sound.

"Madame Laroux just walked in," Gaby informs, all business. There's a beat and then: "Do remember to be charming."

"Radio silence please," he says quickly before crossing the room to introduce himself to the tall brunette with legs that go on for days. Waverly had managed to get him an invite at her table so no one thinks it is strange when he offers the crook of his arm and guides her to their seats. Illya compliments the loveliness of her diamond-studded dress, quickly flashing her his most charming smile – just the right mix of shark and lothario to make Solo proud. He must not look too demented because Gaby is silent in his ear as he takes a seat next to the mark.

Over the next hour, Illya plies the woman with a steady stream of alcohol and listens with rapt attention to her tedious stories about political scandal and gossip about the other members of Parliament, all the while slowly categorizing the hundred ways he would kill himself right now if he could. For the first time in his life, Illya finds himself appreciating Solo's contribution to the team, the art of making the mundane seem fascinating a specific form of tradecraft all its own.

"At this rate, it will be your golden anniversary before we get the intel that we need," Gaby finally sighs impatiently. "Time to go in for the kill. Feel her up."

Illya nearly chokes on a canape. 

"Oh, don't be a prude," Gaby scoffs.

"That seems dangerous," Illya interjects in the middle of Madame Laroux's story about a recent increase in thefts during intermission at the opera.

"Not if she doesn't stop you," Gaby insists, voice husky with something sharp and dangerous. Whatever sixth sense Illya possesses tells him that this is a bad idea and he should pull out the earpiece right now, but something fixes him to the spot as he holds his breath and waits for Gaby to continue. "I bet she's _dying_ to get you upstairs and have her way with you."

Gaby's voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper as she tells him about how she probably won't be able to keep her hands off of him in the elevator, his belt already half off by the time they stumble into her suite. "Decorum only gets you so far. She'll get down on her knees right then, mouthing you through those silly briefs Solo insisted you wear until it's too much. But, ever the _gentleman_ , you won't want to leave her wanting so you'll drag her up before she can get you off and fuck her right against that wall. _Gosh_ , she's probably not even wearing underwear."

It's the _gosh_ that gets to him as Illya puts his drink down a little too forcefully. He swallows hard and hopes to God that he's not blushing right now. Illya shuffles uncomfortably in his seat, his pants just a shade too tight now as Gaby laughs in his ear. The irresistible sound is tinged with everything but innocence and draws him in like quicksand while Illya struggles to pay attention to his companion.

"Go on," Gaby orders, her voice hard again. "Put your hand on her thigh, lean in, and tell her how much you want to _put her over your knee_."

And just like a marionette, Illya finds himself doing just that. His lips spill Gaby's words into Madame Laroux's ear, a rough growl in his voice that makes the woman shiver under his touch. Illya's hand tingles with a different type of energy as he imagines Gaby nursing a flute of champagne and smiling over how completely she has him wrapped around her tiny finger. He is so busy thinking about her laughing at him that he almost misses Madame Laroux's nod before she slips her hand over his and motions towards the door.

"I think you can take it from here, Agent Kuryakin," Gaby announces, her voice slipping into that professional tone again. 

The sound feed cuts off.

  


  


-

  


  


"Well, that was _brief_ ," Gaby notes, raising a perfect eyebrow as the door slams shut behind him. Illya deposits the transmitters on top of the coffee table at her manicured feet. She meets his glare with a smile of her own. "Did you close the deal?"

"We have the information," Illya says, pulling a stack of papers out of the inside pocket of his jacket. The pages crush under the pressure of his closed fist as he slowly breathes in and out. All the admonishments about her complete lack of professionalism that he had practiced in his head on the brisk walk back to their hotel have disappeared from his brain and all he has left in its wake is an adrenaline rush that he cannot quite explain. Illya's body is sizzling like a live wire and he wants nothing more than to electrocute her.

"Was it to everyone's satisfaction?"

"I took a page out of your book," Illya admits, "and waited until she got drunk enough to pass out. The French do a poor job of hiding their classified documents."

"There you go again," Gaby sneers. "Always protecting someone's virtue."

"Forgive me for thinking ahead instead of rushing in half-cocked like you and Cowboy."

"You think too much."

"I did not want—" Illya takes a deep breath and stops himself from completing the thought because he is dangerously close to the line that he shouldn't be crossing. "I am going to bed."

"What do you want?" she asks loudly, jumping up from the couch. With her hands on her hips and her mouth set in a stern line, Illya is reminded of that first night in Rome when she had charged him like an angry pitbull, all emotion and no strategy. Illya plants his feet.

"I want to go to sleep."

"No," Gaby replies, shaking her head. She steps into his personal space and waits for an answer.

"I..."

She punctuates her words by jabbing her index finger against his chest: "What. Do. _You_. Want."

"You," Illya finally says, wishing he didn't sound so weak all of a sudden. He clears his throat and repeats louder this time, "I want _you_."

And then Gaby pounces like a jaguar in the wild, taking him down with her. They land on the carpet with an _oomph_ and then she is on him all at once, one hand pulling at his bow tie while she cards the other through his hair. There's nothing gentle about her bruising kiss, tongue brushing his bottom lip before she bares teeth with just enough pressure to make his heart speed up but not enough to draw blood. Illya's own hand slips under her loose night shirt to press a palm against the small of her back while the other wanders higher towards the clasp of her bra. He has just reached it when she stops kissing him, out of breath and face buried against his clavicle when she says, "Wait."

Illya's head is a little fuzzy from the lack of oxygen but he strains his ears for the heavy sounds of footsteps or guns because surely that is the only reason they'd be stopping right now. Failing to hear anything signaling impending doom, his mouth goes looking for hers again but she places a hand on his chest and pushes herself off him to create some distance between them. 

"Napoleon will be here soon."

Gaby looks like she has been through a wind tunnel. Her cheeks are red and there's a faint flush visible over the top part of her chest that is not covered up by the shirt. If Illya is feeling smug about being the cause of that, he sure isn't telling her because she'd kill him if she even knew he was even _thinking_ it. 

"He can wait a few minutes."

"Oh, _that's_ inspiring," Gaby replies, rolling her eyes as she straightens her shirt.

" _Gabriella_ ," Illya all but whines. It's shameful and so unbecoming of a KGB agent that Illya groans in embarrassment a second later, but the expression on her face is downright giddy. Like clockwork, Solo comes sauntering in with blueprints for an underground safe. 

"So what did I miss?"

  



End file.
